


don't wanna ruin our friendship, we should be lovers instead

by desdemona (LydiaOfNarnia)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/F, Ice Skating, Useless Lesbians, featuring appearances from mickey and viktor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-11 11:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10464219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/desdemona
Summary: She leans down, close enough that her breath creates moisture against the warmth of Sara’s cheek. She allows her lips to caress the spot just below her ear, light as a butterfly touch, before she pulls back and smiles to herself.“I want all of you. I want to touch you, and keep you. I want you to be mine. I want to belong to you.”A series of drabbles written forMilaSara Week 2017!





	1. day one - domestic/future

**Author's Note:**

> i didn't feel like putting together a big grand summary

For all that Sara complains about her hair, she takes just as much pride in it -- for good reason. While Mila’s hair is an incurable wild nest of curls that can be tamed down through force of will alone, Sara’s locks are dark and smooth. They slip through Mila’s fingers like liquid, long nails catching gently on the individual strands as they comb through. Sara dislikes how straight her hair is, but Mila thinks that’s the best thing about it. It is predictable, unlike most things about Sara, and it is as gentle yet fearless as she is.

When she’s asleep, Sara’s hair spreads about her head like a spiderweb of cracks against an otherwise clear mirror. There is no order to it, no care in its presentation or maintenance. Strands cling to the small line of drool trickling from the corner of her mouth; they form tangles at the back of her head that will make Sara whine as she brushes them out the next morning. Her hair is long enough that it clings to her neck, too, and Mila is often seized with the perhaps unreasonable fear that Sara will be strangled in her sleep.

That is what prompted her into action in the dead of night. The simple, half-awake action of tucking her slumbering girlfriend’s hair back from her neck somehow turned into Mila propped up on her elbow, face pillowed against her palm while her other hand brushes gently through Sara’s midnight locks. The world is quiet so late into the evening. There is nothing to say, nowhere to be, and it's the perfect opportunity for Mila to admire Sara as she is. The peaceful expression she wears suits her delicate features perfectly. The curve of her nose is highlighted against her pillow; her jaw is shrouded in shadow, but there is enough light for Mila to watch the steady rise and fall of her breast. As she dreams, Sara breathes, and her heart beats a contented rhythm into the night. It is enough to coax Mila into drowsiness again.

“You're beautiful, you know,” she says. “Just gorgeous. Like a goddess. One of those Roman ones, or maybe Greek -- are they they same things? The myths are the same, I think… yeah. You're one of them.” A small smile tugs at her lips. “Or you're a movie star. That would suit you.”

Anything would suit Sara, she thinks privately, and the thought makes her chuckle to herself. “If you could hear me right now you would call me a sap. I guess I am.”

It's not like her to think out loud, but now that the words are spilling past her lips she cannot stop them. It feels safe, baring her thoughts to their empty room, the darkness and the silence that night brings. There’s no one here but she and Sara, and she is the only one conscious to hear it. “I'm selfish, I think. I get to see your beauty every day, every night, and it's still not enough for me. I want more.”

She leans down, close enough that her breath creates moisture against the warmth of Sara’s cheek. She allows her lips to caress the spot just below her ear, light as a butterfly touch, before she pulls back and smiles to herself.

“I want all of you. I want to touch you, and keep you. I want you to be mine. I want to belong to you.”

She knows that her expressions of affection during waking hours are frequent enough, but superficial. There is a genuineness to Sara in everything she says and does. Her sunshine brightness shines through her every word, every action. Mila is not so blessed; she is either hot or cold, and very rarely in between. As much as she exclaims to Sara that she’s “beautiful” and “adorable” (and she's even said that she loves her, often and casually enough that it doesn't hold the meaning it otherwise would) Mila never means it from the bottom of her soul. It's all true, of course, and she means it; but she cannot bring herself to lay a piece of her heart bare, even to the person she trusts more than anything.

Sara, she is sure, would never hurt her on purpose. Any good skater knows that accidents can happen, and they can devastate. (Mila isn't afraid, because she has always prided herself on being fearless; except, maybe she is.)

“I love you,” she says softly, and _there’s_ the meaning all her other declarations have been lacking. “I couldn't love you more if I tried.”

The words needed to be said. Now that she has said them, she feels no small amount of relief. She peers at Sara’s face in the moonlight and rolls the silky strand of hair between her fingers with loving tenderness.

“I want to talk to you like this when we’re both awake.”

She isn't expecting the slight twitch of lips on an otherwise placid face. Immediately, she freezes up; the strand of hair falls from her fingers. It had been a good (great) charade until that point, but Sara finally breaks.

“Good thing I'm only half-asleep, then,” she says with a tiny smile, teeth white and eyes bright in the room’s darkness. “Does that count?”

“No,” Mila says, and resists the urge to hit her with a pillow. “Go back to bed.”

“You're so _sweet!”_

“Bed!” she half-laughs, and flops back down. Her back turns to Sara before the other girl can see her burning cheeks, but it doesn't matter. Sara throws her arms around her neck, pulling her close holding her as if she never wants to let go. It isn't just the breaths heating the skin of Mila’s shoulder that suddenly makes her feel warm all over. A sleepy sort of contentment sweeps her up, its embrace as comforting as Sara’s arms, and she gives a small sigh before resigning herself to sleep entirely.

She isn't sure whether she’s glad Sara heard her or not. That, she thinks, can be decided in the morning.


	2. day two - friends to lovers/hobbies

Sara is wide eyed, looking a little stunned as she pulls back. Across from her, Mila’s lashes flutter as her own eyes slide open, revealing orbs of blue darkened by the lack of light in the dim attic.

“That was,” Sara says, and Mila nods rapidly. “Yeah.”

“Wow.”

_“Yeah.”_

Of all the ways she thought this Halloween would go, making out with Mila in the attic above the party of the season was _not_ part of the plan.

To be fair, something wild always happened at Viktor Nikiforov’s Halloween parties. Last year, Christophe Giacometti and JJ Leroy performed a strip show, complete with police and fireman outfits. The year before, someone filled the pool with vodka. The year before that, somehow a tree caught on fire, and it may or may not have been intentional.

Was this going to be the highlight of this year’s party? For Sara, certainly. However, the atmosphere around them feels far too intimate to be shared with anyone else. They are alone up here. They had retreated from the party together, taking refuge in the attic where they had been right to assume no one would find them, and there is not another soul in sight to witness their closeness.

Perhaps their joined hands aren't really joined at all. Could the feeling of their knees pressing together, body heat being shared between them, in fact be an illusion? Maybe Sara is alone up here. Maybe there is no Mila at all, and the lingering electricity of lips against hers is a figment of her overactive imagination. Mila is the perfect phantom in this light, powdered face pale and eyes ringed with shadow. Her white dress complements her skin and figure as if it were made just for her; the stark red of her hair completes the image of her as the phantom bride.

“I didn't mean for that to happen,” Mila breathes, and the illusion of ghostliness Sara has built up shatters like fragile glass. “I… didn't know that would happen.”

“It's okay,” Sara says. “It's okay.”

“I kissed you.”

“It's okay.”

“You kissed back?” Mila sounds disbelieving, baffled and amazed and a little bit hysterical. “Ohhh, that happened.”

“And it was great.” In spite of herself, Sara is eager for Mila to agree. A part of her needs it -- she needs to know that this wasn't a mistake, and she hasn't just ruined one of her closest friendships with a truly amazing woman.

“It was,” Mila agrees, beaming. Her phantom makeup cracks at the corners with the force of her smile. Sara’s own fake lashes will probably fall off if she keeps blinking this rapidly, but she doesn't care. She needs to convince herself that this is really, truly happening.

“So,” says Mila, her knee brushing against the fake horned tail attached to the back of Sara’s dress. She looks like she wants to touch her, to caress her hair like she does so often. Sara suspects that if Mila wasn't afraid of upsetting the devil horns on top of her head, she would be. “I guess this means you've claimed my corrupted soul.”

Sara laughs out loud. “What?”

Mila’s cheeks flush beneath her makeup. It's oddly charming. “You're a devil, I'm a spirit. It works.”

“Not really.”

“I was trying to be poetic!” She wrinkles her nose, and Sara laughs again. The sounds echoes through the attic like bubbling champagne, and Mila finally touches her -- a hand on her shoulder, impulsive yet fearless.

They both know that this will change things, but it has been building for a while. Sara was oblivious -- perhaps willingly -- but she can no longer be blind to the connection between them.

“Do you want to get back to the party? Mila asks. Sara scrutinizes this girl, her friend -- her best friend -- the person she loves.

“No,” she replies. “Let's stay up here a bit longer.”


	3. day three - social media/college

Mila is sick and tired of having an angry Italian man stalking their dates.

She isn't being unfair. She _knows_ she’s not being unfair, because she and Sara have talked about this, and her girlfriend is as fed up as she is.

“I _have_ told him to stop,” Sara sighs, burying the lower half of her face in her coffee mug. When she speaks again, her voice is muffled. “And he isn't being as bad as he would be. I think it's force of habit. He just… doesn't have an off switch.”

“Well, he needs to find it,” says Mila, because if she sees Michele Crispino’s face pop up at the same restaurant she and Sara are having their date night one more time, she's going to turn him off, permanently. She really doesn't want to go down in Sara’s memory as “the ex-girlfriend who punched my brother in the face”, especially given how much Sara adores her twin; but enough is enough.

It isn't just their dates. It extends to social media as well. He likes every single photo Mila posts to her Instagram. Not even the ones with Sara in them, but every single freaking photo, even the one Mila posted of Viktor’s ugly plaid socks. She and Michele aren't friends, and she knows via Sara that Michele can't stand anything in plaid. There's only one reason Michele would be stalking her Instagram, and it's the same reason she's spotted him on every single date they've been on for the past month.

He’s keeping an eye on her. She's being stalked by her girlfriend’s twin brother.

It's like something out of a soap opera, really.

So maybe Mila won't let herself punch Michele in the face, but after she finds that he's liked another one of her tweets (nothing special, just _“really wish i didn't forget breakfast today”)_ she decides that she has to retaliate. She doesn't have to be violent; she doesn't even have to be mean. But let it never be said that Mila Babicheva doesn't go down without a fight.

She and Sara have their own fandom within skating circles. The avid MilaSara shippers are suddenly thrown into a tizzy when an influx of new material appears on Mila’s social media. Suddenly, every one of her posts are the same: selfies cuddling with Sara, selfies kissing Sara, selfies in goofy poses with Sara. She posts a picture of her girlfriend sleeping with the caption _“i get to wake up to this everyday #lifeisgreat #blessed #milasara #saramila #saracrispino”_ (she knows for a fact that Michele stalks all of those tags).

Once their relationship has infiltrated her Instagram, she brings it to her Twitter as well. The tweets about how much she adores Sara become incessant, to the point where she can tell her followers are starting to get annoyed. She feels bad, really, but war has casualties. This is definitely war.

Sara doesn't notice. She basks under the attention, and is one of those rare few people who loves having photos taken of her. She's perfectly willing to serve as Mila’s model, and nothing is said of her new spotlight on Mila’s social media presence aside from a bit of light teasing. “You just can't get enough of me, can you?”

“No,” Mila replies, “I really can't.”

Which is why when the inevitable confrontation happens, the thought of backing down doesn't even cross her mind. She doesn't appreciate being hovered over by her girlfriend’s brother -- so when she finally corners him in the bathroom hallway during one off her and Sara’s dates, she knows the war has reached its final battle. She already claimed victory on the social media front, where the sickening sweetness of her accounts has successfully driven Michele off.

Michele isn't threatening her. She's not threatening him. They're having a mature discussion.

“We are going to be a part of your life,” says Mila, saccharine smile in place as she backs Michele to the wall, “and you are going to deal with it. Your sister is a grown-ass woman. You are going to deal with it.” She considers adding that she can probably benchpress Michele’s total weight, but decides that’s too threatening. She definitely is not threatening her sister’s boyfriend. “Okay?”

Michele continues to glare at her, but at least he isn't stupid. She recognizes a flicker of fear in his eyes before he nods. “Okay.”

Mila brightens, stepping back with her hands on her hips before raising her phone to snap a quick selfie. It's a good photo -- her hair looks nice, she's grinning, and Michele seems kind of shell-shocked.

She quickly posts the photo to her Instagram, captioned _“getting along with my other half’s other half!! #family”_. Michele’s phone buzzes a second later, and he makes a grunt of surprise.

Mila just grins, recognizing her victory when she sees it. She and Michele are going to get along well from now on.


	4. day four - fantasy au/seasonal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is based off the movie version of Stadust by Neil Gaiman! It's such a great fantasy story and I was just inspired for this one.

She misses being a part of the night. She misses the sky.

Down on the ground, it doesn't hurt as much. The ache isn't as present, the awful hollowness in her chest not as suffocating. She can only conclude that it's the distance -- being far away from something does not make you miss it less, but at least you aren't within arm’s reach.

Now she practically is. Neither in the sky nor on the ground, sailing just above the clouds, Mila feels as if she could reach out an arm and grasp the sky, pulling herself back up and home. She longs to return to the place of her birth. She yearns for the sky, to desert this fickle body of skin and bone and to shine once more.

The agony is in her powerlessness. She cannot reach out and touch the sky, because she is tied to a chair in the bowels of a pirate ship, strapped back-to-back with the person who started this all in the first place.

“Well,” she says, swallowing down her homesickness and replacing it with bitterness. “This is a _great_ situation.”

“Isn't it?” replies Sara in that infuriatingly light tone. Mila cannot see her face, but she suspects the other girl is forcing a smile.

“What's your plan, princess?” she asks, and this gets Sara’s fruitless wriggling in the ropes that bind them to pause for just a minute. “Since you always seem to have one.”

“This wasn't my fault!”

“You told me to think of home! How was I supposed to know you meant your stupid home instead of mine?” Which was how they’d ended up in the clouds halfway between the two in the first place. Mila didn't trust magic, and she definitely didn't trust it in the hands of someone like Sara, who clearly didn't have a drop of enchanted blood in her body. It was bad enough that they were being hunted down by some witch who wanted to cut out Mila’s heart; she just had to be accidentally knocked out of the sky by the most incompetent runaway princess in existence.

“Why did you have to trust that guy in the first place? He looked sleazy!”

“He did not! He was really handsome, until the part where he tried to stab me in the chest!”

“He had grey hair,” Sara says, as if this settles everything. “Never trust a man with grey hair.”

“That's stupid. And it was silver.” Viktor had seemed very nice at first, to the point where Mila had been completely at ease. She almost hadn't noticed the knife coming towards her heart in time. In fact, were it not for Sara’s quick reflexes…

Okay, so maybe she owed Sara for saving her life. It had been pretty satisfying to see her fling that vase at Viktor’s head, up until he pulled himself off the ground with blue fire in his eyes, rage swirling around him like a cloud of ink. Once he'd started flinging magic, they barely made it out in time.

Mila would rather face down Sara’s brother than see Viktor again. At least she could deal with a normal human; they obeyed the laws of physics, and could be taken out by an old-fashioned punch. It occurred to her that punching the crown prince of the land might get her in a bit of trouble, but she's been running around insulting the crown princess to her face all day. She figures she's already dug her hole, one way or the other. Michele and his dogged pursuit of his mission to bring his sister home can't scare her.

Mila turns her eyes back to the window and the sky outside, unable to keep a flicker of wistfulness out of her eyes. If only she could get one of her arms free… home seems close enough to touch. She misses it. She doesn't want to be here, and she yearns to gleam in the sky once again...

“Do you think I’ll ever be able to get back home?”

The words escape her lips before she can think about it, and she immediately bites her tongue. She doesn't want Sara to think that she’s weak. The girl behind her doesn't laugh, however; she only sounds a bit sad when she replies.

“Do you miss being a star that much?”

The question is ridiculous. Sara has no concept of being removed from everything she’s ever known, even her own body. “Do you miss _your_ home? Your brother? You’re running away. I never had any choice.”

For a long moment Sara is silent. Mila almost feels bad. She knows the princess’ situation is complicated. If she'd had other options besides being forced into marriage, she never would have fled her home with the enchanted necklace in the first place. If she hadn't, none of this would have happened. Mila would still be a star; they wouldn't have to worry about being hunted down by a witch, not to mention Sara’s asshole brother; and they wouldn't be tied up at the bottom of a pirate ship in the sky.

Mila never would have met Sara.

The thought shouldn't bother her, but it does. She swallows hard, furrowing her brow, and stares out the window which serves as the only source of light in the room. Bright pinpricks of light glimmer in the sky, filling Mila with an intense longing; but she is just as conscious of the warm body pressed against her back. It's hard to ignore Sara’s incessant squirming. It's hard to ignore Sara in general, and she'd go so far as to call it impossible.

She doesn't hate the princess, she decides. Even though she's proven herself to be abysmal at planning, and kind of useless at magic and fighting, and has zero ideas where to go from here on out…

Sara needs Mila right now as much as Mila needs her. If she's in the same boat as Sara -- literally -- she’s willing to make the best of it.

“Okay, princess,” she says again. “Let's _come up_ with a plan.”

They don't have to, as it turns out. At that moment the door swings open, and the infamous sea captain Katsuki Yuuri swaggers in to frown at the girls.

“Yeah,” says Sara, swallowing nervously as the pirate looks down at her. “A plan would be nice right now.”


	5. day five - date night/historical au

“This must be unexpected.”

“It isn’t a surprise,” Sara says carefully, and if the finger on the trigger of her gun relaxes a bit she knows better than to think Mila doesn't notice. “It’s more of a surprise that you’re telling me and not just trying to poison me again.”

Mila snorts, a derisive sound that echoes in the empty warehouse. When she tosses her head, a single mahogany curl falls over her shoulder. Even so, she does not take her eyes or her own gun off of Sara.

“Please,” she says, words escaping through perfect red lips. “I haven't tried to poison you in a year.”

“A month,” Sara amends, frowning. She still counts the Monte Carlo episode, even if Mila had handed the drink to her personally. (Sara knows by now never to drink anything Mila gives her; Mila knows that Sara knows. The poison in the wine had just been matter of course, and Sara didn't touch a drop.) Mila must find this example as ludicrous as the entire night was. She snorts out a sharp laugh, taking a step closer.

“I'm here out of the goodness of my heart. Can't you accept that?”

“Shooting you would be out of the goodness of my heart,” Sara replies with a saccharine smile. Mila takes a step closer. If either of them really wanted to kill the other, they've had more than enough opportunities over the past few years.

This is new, however. Never before has one of them actually warned the other of impending danger. Their relationship has stayed within the realms of strict professional animosity (if the few incidents of one-night stands and heated stares across crowded ballrooms don't count). Sara could never associate her own life with that of a USSR spy like Mila Babicheva.

Thankfully, tonight she isn't Sara, and Mila isn't Mila. In this little French town, she goes by the name of Isabella, and while she doesn't know what name Mila is using she knows it's something just as fabricated. Neither one of them are themselves. This is the justification they've always used following every burning kiss or lingering touch.

“I'm not warning you,” Mila says. She writes the very idea off, along with all the emotions it could entail. “I'm just telling you. Don't go back to your hotel room.”

“That's a problem. I have important files waiting for me there.”

“Someone else is waiting for you too.”

“A friend of yours?” Sara asks lightly. Mila purses her lips.

“And not of yours.” She takes another step closer. She's barely gripping her gun now; it looks ready to slide from her hands at any second. Sara’s own hold has faltered, and she fights the urge to lower the weapon to her side. “This is advice, _Signorina_. From one stranger to another.”

Strangers is all they have ever been, and all they will be. Sara nods, solemn in her understanding. Mila smiles again before stepping back, raising the gun once more.

 _“до скорого,”_ she whispers, and Sara replies in a hushed voice, _“fino ad allora.”_


End file.
